


I Live On (Without You)

by Lytri



Series: Random Plots/Stories I Might Never Finish [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Time Skips, World War II, no magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 12:53:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9550058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lytri/pseuds/Lytri
Summary: We met at a battle; a war.Harry. Yes, his name was Harry, and I would never forget him.If I had only stayed a little longer, maybe we might have crossed paths again.Sometimes, I wondered if our paths were fated. Fated to never cross.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure what I was going with this one. Expect this to most likely have parts added to it in the future. 
> 
> Also, tag suggestions are welcome. I wasn't quite sure how to tag this.

# I Live On

 

_We met at a battle; at a war._

___

 _6th of June, 1944_  
_Normandy, France_

Tom clutched his side with his right hand, a burst of pain making his teeth clench harshly. He could hear his blood pumping in his ears. Taking in a gasping breath, Tom wobbly made his way away from the direct line of fire, hiding himself behind some dry brush.

Sliding to the ground, Tom grimaced in pain and took off his helmet to run a hand through his hair. It was an old habit of his whenever he was stressed. He stayed there for a few moments, taking deep, stuttering breaths.

Carefully, Tom removed his hand from his side to access the damage. It missed his vitals, thankfully, but he was still in danger of infection and bleeding out. Shakily, Tom started to unbutton his uniform tunic. He had to staunch the blood flow.

His tunic off, Tom bunched it up and pressed it to his wound, hissing at the contact. Closing his eyes and leaning his head back, Tom sat there for a while, his hands pressing firmly to his wound.

A rustle was heard. Opening his eyes and looking in front of him, Tom was met with the sight of a medic. A _British_ medic. Panicking, Tom attempted to move and grab his gun, which was within reaching distance, but the wound in his side made itself known, halting Tom in his movement.

Looking over at the British medic, Tom resigned himself to his fate, his mouth set in a grim line. But to his surprise, the British soldier approached him and crouched in front of him, sliding his bag from his shoulder. Opening it, he pulled out gauze and set it on the cover of the bag’s open flap. Then he tentatively reached out to remove Tom’s hand from his tunic.

Tom leaned as far away as he could.

Sighing, the British medic snatched his hand from his shirt and removed the now blood soaked garment. Curling his fingers under Tom’s shirt, he pulled it up to reveal the injury. Pausing to access it, Harry gently prodded at the wound, checking how deep the bullet went in. Frowning, Harry sighed heavily.

Reaching into his bag once more, Harry pulled out a bottle and needle. Opening the bottle, the British soldier put the liquid in the needle and the quickly stuck it in right by his wound, injecting the liquid into his skin. Plucking out the needle and putting it away, he then grabbed the gauze and tightly dressed Tom's wound.

Frowning again, the British soldier nodded his head once before standing up. Moving to walk away, Tom stopped him by asking, “ _Why?_ ” in heavily accented English.

“Because I could. This is war, and we all bleed the same colour.” he replied. Tom couldn't really make out what he said, but he made sure to memorise the words so that, if he survived, he could look it up.

The British soldier started walking away, only to be stopped by Tom once more.

“ _Name?_ ” Tom asked.

The British soldier turned his head, looking directly in Tom’s eyes. Tom sucked in a breath. The soldier’s eyes were so green. He hadn't noticed that before.

“Harry.” the British soldier answered.

“Tom.”

The British soldier—no, _Harry_ —nodded his head before turning and walking away, disappearing as if he was never there.

___

 _Harry. Yes, his name was Harry, and I would never forget him._  
____

_16th of January, 1946  
Berlin, Germany_

Tom surveyed the train station, his eyes thinly veiling his distaste. The station was crowded with all sorts of people, but most of them had one thing in common: they were dirty and their faces carried hope.

Hastily, Tom weaved his way through the people in order to get as close to the tracks. Almost there, he was all of a sudden stopped by a small hand tugging at his sleeve. Turning, Tom was met with the sight of a brown-haired boy of around nine with blue eyes.

“Mister, mister,” the boy said in German. “Have you seen my papa? He-he looks like me but grown up and with blond hair.” The boy stared at Tom in hope.

“No, I haven't seen your father.” Tom answered coolly, watching as the boy's expression fell.

“Are you sure?” the boy asked with pleading eyes.

“Yes, I'm sure.”

“Okay, mister. Sorry to bother you.” he said with downcast eyes before leaving Tom alone.

Turning around to make his way to the tracks, Tom scowled when he saw that even more people had crowded there. Moving past people, certainly not above shoving some out of his way, Tom finally made it to the front. And just in time too, as he could hear the whistle of a train as it made its way to the station and stopped.

Quickly, Tom got on board so he could find a halfway decent spot before the train became packed with people. Claiming a window seat at the back, Tom settled himself as much as he could, knowing that he wouldn't be able to relax once everyone got on the train.

Five minutes later, and with body's all squishing together and making Tom feel rather claustrophobic, the train departed. In an hour or so it would arrive to Berlin, and Tom was looking forward to going home and being able to relax a little bit.

In what felt like the longest hour he had ever experienced, the train finally arrived in Berlin. A soft, almost imperceptible, smile made its way on Tom’s face.

_Home. He was home._

Stepping off the train with happy eyes, Tom looked at his home, only for his smile to drop.

_Everything was in ruins._

___

 _I survived my injuries, only to come home to a pile of ash and rubble._  
___

_12th of December, 1959  
London, England_

Tom sighed heavily as his train was yet again delayed. Taking out his pocket watch, Tom looked at the time: 7:56. His train wouldn't arrive until another four hours if he was lucky. A blizzard was apparently happening over in Paris, and so the train wasn't going anywhere for a while.

Leaving the train station, Tom walked across the street to a café he had seen on his way to the station. It was a quaint looking place, and didn't seem to have many people in it, which was why Tom was going there in the first place.

Entering through the door, he was immediately treated by a tall and average looking waiter. “Just one?” he asked with a welcoming smile.

Tom nodded his head once, not even bothering to speak with the waiter. He really didn't want to be bothered at the moment in his bad mood.

The waiter's smile slipped for a split second before returning. “All right then, right this way then please,” he said while directing Tom to a square table by the window. “May I take your coat?”

Tom took off his coat, tucked his scarf in the sleeve, and handed it to the waiter. Hanging the coat on the rack on the wall, the waiter came back and placed down a menu. “Do you know what you would like to drink?”

Tom paused for a moment before replying with a curt, “Espresso.” He needed something to wake him up, having been waiting at that god forsaken train station since 4 o'clock in the morning.

Reaching down and into his bag, Tom pulled out a neatly folded newspaper and opened it. He spent a few minutes reading before he was interrupted by the waiter.

“Your espresso, sir.”

Tom ignored him, continuing to read his newspaper. He spent around two hours at the little café, drinking obscene amounts of espresso and reading his newspaper three times, before he decided it was time to head back to the train station.

Paying for his check, Tom collected his coat and scarf and then headed out. Walking across the street, Tom for some reason turned to look back at the café. His eyes met with a pair of startling green— _familiar green_ —eyes. His eyes widening, Tom wondered if he was hallucinating and looked away for a moment before looking back.

_He was gone._

___

_If I had only stayed a little longer, maybe we might have crossed paths once more._

___

_25th of June, 1976  
London, England_

Tom sat at a park, overlooking a small pond thriving with wildlife. His hair was slightly greying, and he had wrinkles on his face. Not nearly enough wrinkles around his eyes, though.

His mind was far far away, thinking of times he should want forget. It had been 16 years since he had last caught a glimpse of Harry. He didn't know when thoughts over him had become an obsession. Maybe it started that terrible day when he was saved by him despite being his enemy. He did not know, but he did know that as time passed, thoughts of Harry become more frequent.

He could hardly remember what he looked like, his features becoming blurrier and blurrier as time went on. But he never, not in a million years, would forget those eyes. Eyes even more brilliant than emeralds.

Letting out a heavy sigh, Tom stood up, his side stinging a bit in pain. As he got older his old wounds seemed to reemerge and constantly throb. He despised growing old, seeing himself deteriorate slowly. Each time he looked in the mirror, he felt a deep rage well up inside of himself.

Walking down the path, Tom aimlessly wandered, his mind flashing back to each and every encounter he's had with Harry. He's technically only had one, but he would count the brief glimpses of Harry he'd seen across the years. Even if he might have been imagining him.

He didn't know why he didn't give up completely. It was probably that last shrivel of hope he had never managed to beat down.

Glancing up, Tom stared upwards to watch the birds as they tweeted and sung. He wondered if they ever had to worry about never seeing each other again. He doubted so, scowling. Of course birds got to be happy and he didn't. Clicking his tongue, Tom bend down and picked up an acorn. Raising his arm, he threw it as hard as he could at the group of birds, scowling when they all flew away before it could hit them.

“Stupid birds,” he muttered bitterly. Walking over to the pond, Tom glanced down at his reflection. Raising his hands, palms facing up, Tom looked at the distorted hands in the water. “Stupid hands.” he muttered, dropping them to his sides.

Tom stood there, staring with glassy eyes at his rippling reflection. He could feel his vision start to blur, and a hot path burn it's way down his face.  
___

_I wondered, sometimes, if our paths were fated. Fated to never cross again._

 

 


End file.
